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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26766244">My Sweat and Tears XD</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account'>orphan_account</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>NCT (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Am I that good to participate I'm not sure, Based on prompts, Because I'm in college I live alone and I need the money, Broken Families, Brothers, But I observed most stories in this site contain those topics anyway, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Do writing contests pay much you ask?, Family, Gen, Memories, Nope but sometimes they do and I don't really have any other abilities, Short One Shot, So I don't think many are sensitive to them here, So just be careful as you read I guess, So why do I still participate?, These were for writing contests, Toys, am i right?, i would tag more but that would be spoilers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 03:13:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,550</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26766244</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a collection of short stories that I write for competitions, originally not fanfictions. But most of the time after sending in your work to competitions, you can't use the same work elsewhere, even if you don't win, and it felt like a waste that no one got to read them. So I decided I'd switch up the original character names to the names of people who I thought matched the personalities best and post them here. </p><p>I really could've chosen any fandom, but I mean... you can already tell which group I'm a fan of. </p><p>1: Trusty Ol' Pocket Knife</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kim Dongyoung | Doyoung/Park Jisung</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>My Sweat and Tears XD</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jisung came running into the room, opening all the drawers frantically. He then stopped at the bottom drawer and snatched a pocket knife out of it, immediately holding it tightly to his chest. He fiddled with it, pulling a finger along Doyoung's name that was scribbled messily on the wood with a permanent marker. He then stepped slowly to his bed, attention fully on the knife.  As he laid down, his eyes stayed locked on what was in his hand.</p><p>Doyoung sat at the foot of his little brother’s bed. That pocket knife had belonged to him, one he had owned since he started primary school. He might even call it a toy. He sighed.</p><p>A pocket knife wasn't like any other toys. It was a real tool, one that could accomplish a lot of work, a small unit designed to have as much power built into it. Unlike other toys, it didn't break when you press to hard, or when you toss it across the room. A toy that didn't mock you for being too young. Probably why people called it the Trusty Ol' Pocket Knife. Doyoung had trusted it to deal with all the mess human beings threw at him.</p><p>It was human beings who told him he always acted for himself, that he didn't care a bit about his little brother. They said that they knew whatever he would say to answer them were lies, and that no one should listen to whatever he said, ever again. He had turned his back to them, went to his room and told the knife everything. The knife didn't sneer. When he decided he was still angry and stabbed the bottle opener tool onto the table, it left a dent like it should. A knife didn't care if its owner was stupid or weak. It listened to its owner and that was Doyoung alone. No matter what human beings thought of him. </p><p>Or maybe the human beings simply didn't think about him. They were thinking about other acquainted human beings, those who came by weekly to exchange pleasantries and give subtle comments all the while judging every part of their lives. And those outsiders were so polite, so fake that Doyoung's humans lived in fear, always thinking of the worst possible meanings of whatever happened in life.</p><p>When Doyoung had grew quiet, the humans saw it as him being rude to them, and that they have been too nice to their son that he thought he had the right to be impolite. When Doyoung and Jisung smiled at each other more, the humans thought of it as the kids hiding something from them. They saw it as disrespect, that they did not know everything that went on in their kids’ heads. Doyoung almost laughed when they yelled at him about it. Sure, they were hiding something. The fact that they both were suffering and were trying to make each other feel a little better. It was funny how infuriating it got. Humans thought at all the wrong direction, and they did so frantically. They were completely unpredictable, and yet they wanted Doyoung and Jisung to guess exactly what response were wanted from them. It was crazy.</p><p>Unlike the pocket knife. The pocket knife was cool, cold, silent. It was the only thing in the world that agreed with Doyoung anytime. When Doyoung had pushed the knife as deep into himself as he can, as close as he can to his soul, the knife obeyed. The knife was not thinking twice about right or wrong, if it was shameful, if it was stupid. The knife never failed to do its job. It surrendered itself perfectly to Doyoung.</p><p>Jisung held the pocket knife in front of his face and blew at it. A small puff of dust came off. Doyoung blinked, before remembering dust could no longer bother his eyes. The knife was a little dusty after eight years of him not being around, but otherwise it was the same. The same friend who was in his hand during the dullest months.</p><p>They were days that passed like a blur, the sky’s light bulb turning on and off to the beat of sarcastic remarks and not so gentle touches. Doyoung had forcibly blended them to the whirlpool of harsh voices and noises. He had survived by making a box in the air, one which no sound or feeling or warmth can penetrate. As the yelling and grabbing got harder, Doyoung had pulled the box smaller, tighter around him, until not even Jisung can come in. Because every extra word he had to say drained him to the bones, and it was either think of what to say or continue breathing. He sat on the floor for hours, only himself and the knife within the box, staring at the blank wall. He knew it wasn’t healthy, that he would sink deeper into depths of who-knows-where, but he was too scared to hear anything from the outside. Only the knife knew him, accepted him.</p><p>He didn’t care that the box got colder each day, and that how it hurt because the nothingness pressed heavily onto his chest. That was better than having to hear people name all the parts of him out loud to make him see how disgusting and hopeless he was. As time went on, he realized that he no longer wanted to wake up. Yet he hadn’t expected the day to come so soon.</p><p>It was that one evening that even the box seemed like it couldn’t hold the shrapnel of words out any longer. Doyoung remembered holding his breath for as long as possible, then suddenly the box was steel. Very strong, and very, very heavy. Doyoung had ran out into the dark streets, not knowing which direction. All he remembered was his temples hurting from clenching his jaw so hard.</p><p>Had he seen the headlights coming? Maybe. Did he try to avoid them? Maybe not.</p><p>It wasn’t important now anyway. Sooner or later the day would come, and Doyoung would rather there be a little less than excruciating way for Jisung to remember him. Had he not ran out, had he simply let the box suffocate him and break his strings, he might lose his mind and take his own action. And that would have left a much deeper scar on his brother.</p><p>What matters now was that Doyoung was terrified. Jisung knew what the knife had meant back then. In the earlier days when Doyoung still spoke a little, Jisung would even bring him the knife when he saw Doyoung looking stressed out. And now, Jisung had came running, looking for the knife. For the entire of eight years, even while mourning Doyoung, never had Jisung looked for the pocket knife. Doyoung might be dead, but he wasn’t stupid enough to believe that Jisung did that for no reason.</p><p>“Hyung, I know you’re there,” Jisung’s shaky voice called. Doyoung’s chest tightened. How he wished he could answer his brother. “And I think you probably guessed it already.” Doyoung’s heart sank. “I’m scared. I’m lonely. They don’t get it, and they only see the bad parts of everything.”</p><p>If Doyoung could cry, he would. Please, whatever he could do. Don’t let Jisung do the same.</p><p>“Now I know why you talk only to the knife. Because only the knife was safe. Only the knife wouldn’t hurt you if you don’t let it. Unlike… unlike everyone else.”</p><p>“Jisung. Please don’t build the box. Please talk to someone. Please don’t start shrinking into yourself, it’s suffocating. Please-“</p><p>“Hyung, you wanna know where you went wrong?”</p><p>Doyoung knew Jisung couldn’t hear him to begin with, but he stopped talking.</p><p>“You protected yourself by hiding away. You backed off so much that you probably didn’t hear most of the nasty things they said about you. But your safe place was a knife, hyung. As much as you talk to it, you love it, you know deep inside that it can’t stand for you. It can’t love you back. It’s dead.”</p><p>Jisung wiped the tears from his face, turning to face the ceiling.</p><p>“I don’t blame you. It wasn’t like you could’ve spoken to me. Heck, I was eight.” Jisung brought the knife up, flipping it back and forth. “But don’t worry, I won’t go down your path. I have my safe place, and although he’s also dead,” Jisung’s voice cracked. “I know he loves me back. When I came running in for the knife, I wasn’t looking for it.”</p><p>“You were looking for me.”</p><p>“I was looking for you. You know, I’m not sure if you’re always here, or if you come sometimes, or if you come at all. But I’ll just believe that when I hold the knife, you’ll come by for a hug or something.”</p><p>Jisung sighed. He stared at the knife for a few seconds, then slipped it under his pillow. He closed his eyes, tears streaking randomly across his face.</p><p>“Hyung, can I have the knife?”  Jisung whispered.</p><p>Doyoung smiled. As Jisung drifted off to sleep, the pocket knife under his pillow glowed. On one side, Doyoung’s name was written in permanent marker. On the other side, Jisung’s name now was carved into the wood. It was his now.</p>
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